While sorting through old papers, I found a poem written by Willowdown, a deceased poet from the family of poets at The Peaceful Pub (the peacefulpub.com). It struck a chord with me today so I thought I would share it. (Reprinted with prior permission)
A Beclouding of the Consciousness by Willowdown
Submissive to the pen
the poet scribbles little secrets,
mere snippets of the greater self
in the search for perfection,
inebriated by the effort,
giddy with the gift of life –
On his knees now
he studies the violet,
sees the shades and shapes,
the sensuous dewdrops,
the exuberant bloom of rainbows
on the petals.
At noon he weeps
as the violet withers beneath the boiling sun
– too wilted to hold its form,
his grief too great to go on.
In trembling trance
he thinks of death, others’,
his own, the violet’s,
and through the after hours of morning
he imprints the earth with despair.
Prostrate he sprawls in resignation,
failing every dream
And then the sun goes down.
The violet stretches its tiny limbs,
utters a sigh almost inaudible,
opens it mouth like a new kitten
to its fullest height –
a jewel beheld by jewel’ed eye.
The poet rises
in amazement at his creation,
a genius now. If not a god,
then pretty close.
To enjoy more of Willowdown’s work and tributes to him, check out these links:
His pen and ink drawings:
A Willowdown Memorial: